Just The Back Of A Head
by MagnoliaHolmes
Summary: "No one ever thinks about the cabbie. You're just the back of a head." Sherlock/John. Post-Reichenbach. Smut. Fluff. *Yummy*


_A/N: Greetings, fellow Sherlockians! This is my first fanfic. Like, ever. Please be nice! I've never been much of a writer, but I looove Sherlock and John. So much. So I decided to take a crack at it. Reviews are love. Tell me how I do!_

_I got this idea from Pinterest, and couldn't find any stories on this site that mentioned it. Might as well write my own, eh?_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately Sherlock and John are not mine. The TV show belongs to the almighty BBC and the characters themselves belong to Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm just taking them out for a spin but I promise to return them in the same condition I found them. Cross my heart._

_P.S. Sadly, yo soy Americana (and in her 3rd year of taking Spanish. Bilingual like a pro). So if our boys sound not-so-British in here, there's a reason. But you'd think with all the BBC stuff I watch I'd be a proper Brit by now, hmm? :)_

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**Just The Back Of A Head**

To say it had been a long and tiresome three years would be a tremendous understatement.

Since a certain 6" brilliant consulting detective was no where to be found, John Watson had taken up the job after Lestrade had phoned him 6 weeks after Sherlock's burial, saying that John was the next best thing, and that they needed him. Needless to say, he was reluctant to take the job.

Also needless to say, he had nothing better to do.

A job at the surgery could kill a couple hours, but it could never fill the empty feeling John carried around since Sherlock's death. Nothing was the same. He couldn't even find comfort in his own home at the end of the day. There wasn't a strange man sitting in his flat anymore; refusing to eat, refusing to sleep, or shooting the walls. Most would think of such a flatmate a nuisance. But not John.

Not only a was there a sense of emptiness, but also longing and regret. Though any tabloid you picked up would tell you of Sherlock and John's romantic relationship, it really did cease to exist, but not by John's choice. He also never told the few attendees during his eulogy at Sherlock's funeral of how he was madly deeply in love with the younger man. He could never bring himself to say it. And who could blame him? Sherlock was a brilliant, exciting, incredible, adventurous man. What was John? A boring, uninteresting, worse-for-wear ex-army doctor with a damaged shoulder and a psychosomatic limp in his leg. What had he to offer the consulting detective. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.

But now that Sherlock was gone, John couldn't help that feel he should have told him. At least once. At least once in a platonic "you're-my-best-friend-and-I-bloody-love-you" sort of way. Just three simple words would have sufficed.

I.

Love.

You.

But no. Sherlock had to go and jump off of St. Bart's before he ballsed up the courage to say it.

Every Sunday, at noon, on the dot, John would visit Sherlock's grave. He could never bring himself to take along flowers or anything of the sort. '_Sentiment'_ a deep voice in the back of his mind would say. He'd chuckle. Then he'd sob a bit.

He'd talk about the current case he was working on with the Yard. He'd talk of the suspects, the victim. Anything he think would've interested Sherlock. He'd tell him of how Lestrade was doing, how annoyingly stupid Anderson and Donovan were, how excited Molly was whenever a new cadaver was brought to the morgue. He even talked of Mrs. Hudson, and he denial of being a housekeeper. He never talked about himself. He figured Sherlock didn't need to know how much he was hurting. He also figured he'd probably said enough the first time he visited the grave. _I was so alone, and I owe you so much_. What he said was true. It wasn't one of those things people said at a grave site because they're grieving. He'd never known how much of his life was missing, until he walked into 221B Baker Street, and it changed forever.

One Sunday, he'd just payed a visit to Sherlock and was hailing a cab home. He got in, told the cabbie of his home address, and set to sulking in the backseat until he could go home, cry a little, and get back to working on the triple homicide case Lestrade had phoned him about earlier that day.

"Thanks, mate," John said, as he passed the cabbie the fare at the end of his ride. Only, the the driver refused to take the money, In fact, he sat motionless in the front seat.

"Hey, are you alright?" John asked.

Suddenly, the deep, baritone voice that had haunted both John's dreams and nightmares since that first case rang out. "No one ever thinks about the cabbie. You're just the back of a head."

John's heart sank in his chest. He felt bile rising in his throat. So many conflicting emotions at once, he had no idea what to do. He finally took the chance to examine the man sitting in the driver's seat. Short, dark hair. Very thin, even though John could see only the top half of his body. He hadn't seen his face the entire ride. In fact, he hadn't even heard him speak in the duration of the ride, either. And now, he thought the man sitting before him was his dead best friend.

"Sher-, Sherlock?" He managed to make out.

"Excellent deduction, John."

And that was the last thing John heard before his world went black.

* * *

_'When did I get back to Baker Street?'_ John thought when his consciousness returned. The last thing he remembered was getting into a cab, and he was about to pay the fare when-

"Lugging your dead weight up the stairs wasn't exactly what I had expected when I envisioned our reunion."

Oh. That's what happened.

John partially sat up from the sofa and took a good look at his not-so-dead flatmate. He was thinner than John had even seen him. Was anyone telling him to eat these days? His hair was shorter than it had been when he- Wait. He didn't die. So what did he do? What the bloody hell was happening?

"Sherlock." He paused. "Sherlock. I thought you were dead." His voice broke on the last word. What could he say? He didn't know whether he wanted to cry, rejoice, or punch Sherlock in the face. At this point, each solution was equally probable.

"Well obviously I am not, John. I thought your deductive skills had improved? Otherwise, Lestrade never would have let you continue working on cases when it is so obvious you're experiencing deep emotional turmoil since my little stunt."

And was that the wrong thing to say.

"Little stunt? _Little stunt!?_ Are you fucking serious, Sherlock? Everyone thought you were dead! I thought you were dead! You left us, all of us! One minute, we're chasing Moriarty, the next, you're on top of St. Bart's telling me that everything I knew about you, everything _everyone_ knew about you was a big bloody lie! This was more than just some little stunt, Sherlock, it was the worst day," He paused and tried to regain his composure. He really didn't want to tear up, but nevertheless, the tears began to flow, "It was the worst day of my life. You left me, Sherlock. Alone. Why?"

"For you, John."

"For me? What do you mean, for-"

"I love you."

"Wait. You what?" Now John was sure he was hearing things. Maybe he'd gone mad, and none of this was really happening. Sherlock hadn't returned and they definitively weren't really having this conversation. Maybe he could just close his eyes, and when he opened them, he'd be lying in his bed-

"I said, I love you. Do try to keep up, John." Despite the familiar cocky tone, the man looked broken, hurt. Empty.

Okay. Maybe this was real. "You love me. You _love_ me? Okay. Er, let's pretend what you just said actually makes sense. Now, what does that have to do with you jumping off a building?"

Sherlock sighed, as if what he was about to say would be quite difficult. "Moriarty basically gave me an ultimatum. Jump, or my only three friends would be shot and killed. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson-"

"And me." John finished for him.

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ..."

An awkward silence crept it's way into the room. The distance between the two men seemed to grow stronger, wider. John stood carefully, since he was still unsure of his own capability of standing, and broke the silence.

"Come here." Sherlock looked up and met his eyes. Confusion laced with sorrow and regret. It tore John up inside to see such a foreign look on his best friend's face. He repeated, "Sherlock. Come here."

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock walked the few steps it took to be as close to John as physics would allow. John touched both his shoulders with his hands, testing the validity of the existence of the man before him. He slowly ran his hands down the younger man's arms, back up his chest, til they settled on his neck. He looked him straight in the eyes and saw tears running down Sherlock's cheeks. John used his thumbs to ride them from his sharp, porcelain looking face. The detective smiled, the kind of smile he seemed to reserve only for John. Words couldn't explain how much John yearned for that smile, every day, and every night. He stood on his toes as he brought Sherlock down to hug him. Sherlock didn't respond at first, probably out of confusion, maybe guilt. But John didn't care, because after a few awkward seconds, Sherlock eased into the embrace, and John couldn't feel more at peace then he was at that moment. They stayed like that for over a minute, and when John reluctantly released Sherlock, he saw something in his eyes he didn't recognize._ 'Wait. Was that love?'_ He suddenly remembered that only minutes ago, Sherlock had declared his love for him. Did Sherlock mean that just as platonic best friends? Or something more? Well. There was one sure fire way to find out. John carefully pressed his lips to Sherlock's. The younger man didn't immediately respond to that gesture, either. But when he did? John was quite glad he wasn't dreaming now. He pulled back.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock just stared at him. Then, as if he was awoken by a trance, he shook his head and managed a breathy "John?"

"I love you, too."

And apparently that was all Sherlock needed to hear. He pushed back onto John with all the strength he could muster, effectively toppling them to ground. Neither man cared, they were too caught in the moment, so many thoughts swirling in their head. _'Is this really happening? Is this just a dream?'_ Fortunately for them, it wasn't. Both men showered the other with kisses. On necks, on cheeks, on noses. Then when their lips met once again, this kiss was a kiss of passion. Fire. Arousal. Need. They couldn't seem to get enough of each other But still, John noticed something peculiar. But before he could even ask, Sherlock answered the unspoken question.

"No, John. I've never done this before. It's just you. It's always been you."

John couldn't keep the tears from swelling in his eyes. "Well, we better get off the floor then, hmm? Make it a good one, right?" John smiled, and Sherlock couldn't help but mirror him. He got to his feet and helped John get to his. His smile grew impossibly larger when the older man gently interlaced their fingers and led them to Sherlock's old bedroom. It brought tears to his eyes as well when he saw that nothing had been moved or removed. He'd been keeping a close eye on John the last three years, but this was a wonderful surprise, and it brought a warm joy to his heart. The clearing of a throat brought him back to the present and he saw John sitting on the bed, beckoning Sherlock to join him. The younger man was happy to oblige. As soon as he sat down, John lifted a hand to Sherlock's face and once again pressed his mouth to the detective's. Sherlock decided that this was his new favorite feeling, and stored it on a special shelf in his Mind Palace, never to be removed. Though his experience was limited, _and by limited he meant non-existent_, it felt so right to kiss John. John. His John. The one that stayed.

It would be a lie to say that John was both terrified and uncharacteristically proud that he would be the one to take Sherlock, to claim his as his own, to share something that Sherlock had never shared with anyone. He made it his top priority to put the younger man's pleasure above his own. He wanted his first time to be fantastic.

John slowly removed his lips from Sherlock's and moved them down his jaw, along an invisible path to his neck. Once the hem of the detective's shirt stopped him, he decided that _both_ of them were wearing _way_ too many clothes. With the skilled hands of a surgeon, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, revealing a surprisingly toned and oh-so-beautiful chest that was rewarded with a kiss each time new skin was shown. Once he got to the bottom, Sherlock slipped the shirt off his shoulders and John carefully pushed the other on to his back so he could remove his trousers. While he undid the fly, John used his mouth to bring as much pleasure to Sherlock as he could. He toyed with a nipple using his tongue until it was hard enough to rub between his teeth. The deep moans Sherlock was making was enough confirmation of his enjoyment. He made his way down the chest, praising each bit of skin he could reach until he made it to the trousers and they were swiftly removed. John mouthed Sherlock through his pants, licking from the bottom to the crown and sucking eagerly.

"Jesus, John! Gah..it feels..s- so good."

John smiled, proud of himself that he could bring the usually so calm and collected Sherlock Holmes to stammering and stuttering. He slowly, tantalizingly pulled down Sherlock's pants and expertly engulfed him in one shot.

"AHH!" Sherlock's back arched so high he practically flew off the mattress. His arms were flailing until he hesitantly put his hands to the back of John's head. Not pulling, just massaging the golden-grayish locks.

This being Sherlock's first time, John knew he wouldn't last long. When he could sense the the younger man was close, he pulled off with a pop and Sherlock made a whiny noise of protest.

"Why in God's name would you stop?" Sherlock asked, with an almost horrified expression on his face.

"Because I have better plans for you." John said, voice think with lust. He then stood up and rid himself of all his own clothing and sat back on the bed on his knees. He reached over to the bedside cabinet and muddled around til he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a small tube of some sort of mystery substance. And Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective barely had time to register what it was before John had smeared some on his fingers and stuck his index into his own arse. Sherlock watched in awe as John started to ride his own digits, putting on a fantastically erotic show for him. His own hard-on was starting to hurt. He needed release. He used on his lowest, sexiest voice and said, "John. I need you know."

John's pupils enlarged and his eyes darkened even more. He pulled out his fingers from inside him and straddled Sherlock. As he reached behind him, he mouthed _'I love you'_ to Sherlock. And with that, he sunk down.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HOLY SHIT!" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs. The new sensations he was experiencing were unlike anything ever before. He finally understood why so many people killed over this sort of thing. John just sat there, hands on Sherlock's chest, waiting to adjust. Then when he started to move, Sherlock lost all sense of control. He couldn't help restrain himself from bucking his hips wildly, and he was thankful John seemed not to mind. He just rode him into oblivion. After a few amazing minutes-which seemed like _so_ much longer-John ran a hand down his chest to stroke his own cock. Sherlock's hand joined his and they both rubbed him, bringing John closer to his impending orgasm. Sherlock was very much unable to form coherent words or sentences right now, but the look in his eyes said it all. John saw so many emotions there he had never seen before-Lust. Amazement. Love. Unbelievable love and cherishing. Just one look in Sherlock's eyes and John finally climaxed, all over the chest of his younger lover. The extra tightening around his own cock and seeing John lose all composure pushed Sherlock to the edge as well. For a moment, they just lay there. John slumped over Sherlock, with the consulting detective still inside him. After a few short moments of post-orgasmic bliss, John pulled off and rolled over to face Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Hhmph." He still seemed unable to form thoughts. It was such a strange, new, _amazing_ feeling.

"Sherlock." John repeated.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock said, realized whatever John had to say, he was going to say it anyway.

"What does this mean?" John asked, a slight amount of fear lacing his voice.

"Anything you want it to mean, John."

"What do you want it to mean?"

"I love you, John. And as far as I can tell, that is all that matters. Is that answer satisfactory?"

John smiled. "Yeah, Sherlock. It definitely is. I love you, too." They shared a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. Just the touch of their lips, saying everything they'd never be able to put into words.

"Thanks for coming back to me, Sherlock."

"I'll always come back to you, John."

And with that they drifted off into the best sleep either man had ever slept, with a smile on their lips.

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_A/N: So? How was it? Good? Not quite? Tell me!_


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